


lay it down (when you walk through my door)

by meggiewrites



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Apparently writing Injury Fic is my Thing now, Established Relationship, FC Bayern München, Fluff without Plot, Inspired by Real Events, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggiewrites/pseuds/meggiewrites
Summary: When Thomas sprains his ankle in the game against Augsburg, he just wants to go home and get looked after. Sadly, that's not very likely, since his other half is currently walking on crutches as well.





	lay it down (when you walk through my door)

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly headcanon that somehow turned out way too long. But since I vowed to post more, here it is. Mostly fluff, all pointless. 
> 
> Thanks to [Khalehla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla) for the beta – enjoy!
> 
> Title from Phillip Phillips' [Unpack Your Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myHWD6Pch8U) (which is also the former titel)

“ _Ein Indianer kennt keinen Schmerz._ ”

It seems like a very typical phrase for Thomas Müller, especially for a Thomas Müller who walked out of a game not only with an injury, but with a goal as well.

Nevertheless, the sentence is uttered through clenched teeth and he can feel his smile – albeit honest – waver under the flashes of pain shooting up through his leg from his ankle. Thankfully, the reporters don’t really seem to notice that he’s mostly faking it. Still, he can see the medics shooting him concerned glances from where they’re waiting at the end of the mixed zone.

While he was permitted to continue playing, they certainly didn’t encourage it, and he was able to feel their judging stares on his back as he returned to the field. Now, as the pain only gets worse by the minute, he almost wishes he’d given in to their pleas. Almost.

The resulting examinations seemingly lasts for an eternity, and when they finally release him with some encouraging words, a bunch of pain meds and strict instructions on how to not overstrain his ankle, he feels like he’s been run over by a truck, both mentally and physically. At that point, all he wishes for is to be home, make himself a cup of coffee and enjoy a good cuddle on the couch. It’s a happy image, but one that’s quickly distorted when he recalls that being taken care of is not really an option at the moment.

That assumption only seems to get confirmed when he returns home. It seems strange that he thinks of the flat as home already, when he doesn’t even officially live there – never mind that he hasn’t spent a night in his own bed for weeks, if not months. But already the croaking noise of the big entrance door is comfortingly familiar to his ears, and so is counting the steps until he finally reaches the top floor. There’s a slight hobble in his step, and by the time he stands in front of their door, his legs feel like they’re made out of solid steel.

It takes him ages to fish the keys out of his back pocket, and when he finally manages to push the door open, the fact that his significant other is currently very much not capable of helping him with his new injury is quite apparent: for one thing, he almost stumbles over a large shoe haphazardly lying around in the middle of the hallway. Shoe, singular, as its companion is nowhere near in sight.

With a soft curse, he pushes it closer to the wall, kicking the door shut behind him – with the one foot that is still working properly, mind you. As he risks a peek into the living room he surprisingly finds it empty, with the TV still on mute, showing the last game of the day: Frankfurt against ‘Gladbach.

He makes the trip to the kitchen, swearing as he almost collides with the doorframe when he accidentally puts too much weight on his right foot. He finds some leftovers from yesterday’s dinner in the fridge. It’s couscous salad, thankfully something he doesn’t have to heat up, and he devours it leaning against the kitchen counter, every now and then peeking into the living room to check the game’s scoreboard.

He leaves the empty bowl in the sink when he’s done, turning to the coffee machine. It’s a beast, one of those big industrial things that they use in coffee shops and that cost almost as much as a middle-class car. It happily comes alive under his fingers when Thomas pushes the right buttons.

Once again he’s surprised that the apartment’s owner seemingly manages to sleep through the annoyingly loud humming noise the machine makes – what with the bedroom being located just over the hall, and its door, if he remembers correctly, currently open.

Of course he manages to impatiently snatch the cup away just a smidge too early, and a remainder of milk spills over his fingers. With a sigh he rubs them dry on his jeans before making his way over to the bedroom where he suspects that his other half has surrendered to the lulling effects of the pain meds running through his own system.

Indeed he’s occupying the bed in the usual manner – planted facedown on the mattress, nose buried in the pillow, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. He’s easily taking up more than half of the two meters wide bed, sheets randomly draped over his middle. The only thing that’s unusual about the sight – apart from the fact that Manu's sound asleep at 8 pm on a weekend – is the heavily bandaged foot sticking out from underneath the sheets.

Lost in admiration, Thomas (stupidly) doesn’t account for the crutches he knows go with said injured foot as he tries to approach the bed. As a result, he promptly tumbles over them, tipping his coffee over and splashing it all over the unfortunately white carpet. He curses under his breath but has to grin at the irony; since it was him who made fun of Mats for doing the exact same thing a couple weeks before.

He shakes his head, then returns to the kitchen to fetch a few paper towels to wipe most of the spillage up; it still leaves an ugly brown stain. Well. Replacing a carpet is hardly the most painful thing he’s had to do that day.

Now, with his coffee lost, there’s no reason not to join his other half, and he gets a low grumbling noise in return as he sits down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through short dark blond hair.

A pair of bleary blue eyes squint up at him. “ ‘omas?”

He nods, giving Manu a crooked smile.

The goalkeeper slowly blinks, then lets out a huge yawn, stretching his arms in the process, shuffling into an upright position. “ ‘Time’s it?”

Thomas checks his watch. “Around eight. Have you been sleeping the entire time?”

Manu softly shakes his head. “No I” He lets out another yawn, smaller this time. He looks a bit like a drowsy kitten, Thomas thinks. A very big kitten.

“I did watch you guys play. ‘Have to support my team, after all.” Manu then stops, a frown creeping up on his face, as if suddenly remembering something. “Your ankle. Are you alright?”

Thomas snorts. “Do I have to remind you that you’re the one currently walking on crutches, babe?”

Manu rolls his eyes, letting his head fall back against the headboard, his eyelids fluttering shut. “I saw what happened. It looked painful. Well.” He tilts his head, an amused grin tugging at his lips, “Mostly you looked pissed off.”

Thomas huffs. “I had all the reasons to.”

Manu grins to himself, then reaches for Thomas’ hand and gently threads their fingers together, blinking down at where their injured feet are harmoniously lying next to each other, one wrapped in white bandages, the other one in dark blue ones.

“Proper heroes we are, aren’t we?” Thomas chips in, tenderly nudging Manu’s foot with his own, instantly regretting it when it starts throbbing again. Manu pulls a face as well, but it feels foolish to apologize.

“At least you went down honourably. That goal was pretty amazing.”

“Compared to what, you? Well, not everyone manages to fall over their own feet during training, you know.”

They share a chuckle. It feels good, their mindless banter that's lacking any bite, and it takes his mind off the ache pulsating through his whole body. With a sigh, Thomas slings an arm around Manu’s broad shoulders, curling up into his side.

“I missed you on the field today. I’ve really gotten used to knowing that you’d have our backs back there. It was like some layer of familiarity got stripped away from me.” He tilts his head wonderingly. “I don’t think I’ve felt that foreign in the Arena for a long time.”

Manu just hums and Thomas can feel the vibrations of his chest where his hand is resting on it. He can see that the older man is close to falling asleep again, his eyes threatening to fall shut and staying that way at any moment, his head lolling against Thomas’. The tiredness is creeping up his own bones again, too, so he gently nudges Manu so that he lays down properly again, letting the 'keeper's head rest on his chest, their fingers still intertwined between their bodies.

 

A few days later they watch the game against Hoffenheim from Manu’s couch, perched next to each other, their bodies touching from their calves to their shoulders. They’re both tense, as the game isn’t going all too well. Manu is frowning, lips pressed tightly together. He flinches a bit when Thomas reaches over to squeeze his thigh.

“Ulle isn’t doing too bad, though.”

Manu sighs. “No, he’s actually quite alright, I mean …”

Thomas grins “He’s not you?”

“Shut up, that’s not what I meant.” A huff, and a small grin. Thomas counts it as a small win.

“The rest of them are just running around like headless chickens?”

Manu chuckles. “Yeah, pretty much. Ugh, why did you have to get knocked out as well? They need you.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, and Manu sighs, running a hand over his face, turning his head to meet his gaze.

“You know what I mean! Even when you’re sitting on the bench, you’re the one holding them all together, kinda.”

Feeling warmth flare up in his stomach, Thomas taps a rhythm out on Manu’s leg, but in the end his silly nature still wins the upper hand. “Aw babe! You really do like me!”

Manu groans, wrestling himself away from him. “Why can’t you stay serious for one second, oh my god.” But he ends up grinning anyway.

“Well, you know me” Thomas shrugs, knotting his fingers into the shirt on Manu’s side. “And now, would get me another drink, be a dear? I’m injured.”

Manu just snorts, taking one of his crutches and pointedly waving it around, almost knocking over the glasses on the coffee table in the process. “So am I, _dear_. Now shut up and go get it yourself.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   * Manuel on crutches ([x](http://68.media.tumblr.com/842c879a9859ce274d00056163f11637/tumblr_onr6czUZ7j1w1nj9qo1_1280.jpg))
>   * Thomas' goal and injury against Augsburg ([x](https://youtu.be/t4t3M2brQQc?t=2m46s))
>   * I write FICTION about real people. None of this is intended to harm them or their reputation in any way
> 

> 
> Please leave kudos and maybe a comment if you liked it! | [tumblr](http://manuelmueller.tumblr.com/)


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